


Scary Thoughts Are Spreading Like a Weed

by non8inary



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, I used grammarly does that count, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentioned Alexis | Quackity, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Floris | Fundy, Mentioned TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Not Beta Read, One Shot, Self-Harm, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, Well it was beta read but she isnt in the DSMP fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29395425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non8inary/pseuds/non8inary
Summary: Tubbo had seemingly returned to his normal self after exiling his best friend, pushing through more work than what was expected of him. He didn’t seem phased at all - the only difference being his banter was slightly lacking the spark he usually had, and it was clear that he was making a deliberate effort to avoid mentioning Tommy. He seemed… fine.Everything was fine.Of course, it wasn’t.- or -After exiling Tommy, Tubbo deals with the guilt and negativity brewing inside him by returning to old habits.- - Note:Title is from "I Deserve to Bleed" by Sushi Soucy.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Kudos: 85
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	Scary Thoughts Are Spreading Like a Weed

**Author's Note:**

> I don't go specifically into the act of self-harm in this fic, but it is heavily implied and referenced quite a bit. If this could be triggering to you, I urge you to close this fic and find something else to read - it's not worth a panic attack over. Stay safe, y'all.
> 
> \- - Note:  
> I wrote this instead of working on ch.5 of my other fic as a distraction, trying to cope with some pretty bad self-harm related urges at the moment. Consider it projection onto Tubbo, in a sense...?

“It’s how it has to be. You’re a liability.”

The words felt like tin in Tubbo’s mouth, sharp shards of metal in his mouth that stabbed at his gums as he spoke, but he kept his calm as he spoke. He  _ hated _ that it had come to this, but the list of options he had been given to remedy the situation grew shorter with every passing day, every scheme thought up by Tommy himself to fix the mess he’d brought upon everyone else of L’Manberg.

He took a sharp inhale, the gentle breeze like cold knives in his throat, as he spoke the last sentence he felt he had the energy to say:

“You have to leave now.”

Despite the situation, despite the immense stress that his cabinet and best friend put him under at that moment, despite the anxiety that had been rising steadily in his gut throughout his confrontation with Dream, Tubbo had managed to keep his calm. He was as collected as he could be, and for once, he was actually thankful for how tired and overworked he felt from the endless amount of work he’d been putting in as President of L’Manberg, as the lack of energy in his system probably helped keep his hands from shaking wildly. His shaky hands would’ve been a dead giveaway to the two remaining members of his cabinet, telling them that even he wasn’t sure he was making the right choice at that moment.

After all, this  _ was _ what was best.

Tommy had just made problems for the citizens of L’Manberg. What he considered pranks, jokes, teasing, was never as simple as that, and his most recent “prank” on George - a prank involving going through his items and stealing whatever he fancied while leaving the house a burning wreckage behind him - had lead them here.

Exile would be good for him, wouldn’t it? He’d finally start learning to really fend for himself, to get his own gear and tools, to not rely on those around him to just give him whatever he needed or wanted whenever he asked. Hopefully, he’d return to L’Manberg with some sense of responsibility or respect for the work others had put in to get to where they now stood.

Before Tubbo could turn away to face Fundy and Quackity once again, Tommy’s voice let out a hoarse cry back to him.

“You’re my  _ friend _ .”

It was stated like it was some sort of truth that Tommy was desperately trying to hold on to and believe, his last lifeline, like if he said it aloud then it  _ had _ to be right. It wasn’t meant to hurt Tubbo the way it did, but the furrow in Tommy’s brow and the pain that rested just behind his eyes was enough for Tubbo to feel a physical reaction in his chest, needles pushing against the surface of his skin.

There was no going back at this point. Dream had Tommy’s arm locked in his grasp, pulling him away from the wall that surrounded his home. Tubbo watched only for a moment, Tommy was forced to turn away from the group standing above him, finally turning away from the scene with a quiet farewell.

“Goodbye, Tommy.”

* * *

No one really expected Tubbo to bounce back after that.

Once he’d excused Fundy and Quackity from their work for the night, the two spoke in hushed whispers outside the White House walls, discussing what they’d do the next day if Tubbo couldn’t find it in himself to continue the back-breaking work he’d been putting in day after day. They came to an agreement that, should any work go unfinished, they would enlist the help of Ranboo to complete any tasks that needed to be done, but after returning to work the next day, it appeared there was no need for the pact.

Tubbo had seemingly returned to his normal self, pushing through more work than what was expected of him. He didn’t seem phased at all - the only difference being his banter was slightly lacking the spark he usually had, and it was clear that he was making a deliberate effort to avoid mentioning Tommy. He seemed… fine.

Everything was fine.

Of course, it wasn’t.

* * *

Tubbo had a reputation.

He was known for the positive attitude he brought to any situation. He was known to never hold back a joke when he thought of one, even in situations that didn’t call for them. He was known to smile practically at all times, as though nothing could ever bring him down.

So when he was truly at his worst, he couldn’t let it show. He couldn’t let anyone know that the happy kid everyone knew was hurting.

Deep down, he knew that it wouldn’t make anyone think differently of him. It would make him a hypocrite to say otherwise, as  _ he _ was the one to always remind Tommy that “big men” can still get upset or even cry. Even so, Tubbo wasn’t fond of the idea of letting down the facade he had built for himself. He needed to be strong - not for himself, but for the people of L’Manberg.

With Tommy no longer here to stand beside him in his time of need, Tubbo found himself returning to old habits.

No one seemed to notice when Tubbo slipped the knives from the White House kitchen into his pockets after every meal. No one seemed to care when the supply of bandages and plasters started to mysteriously deplete without any cause. No alarm bells were raised when the barrel by the entrance to the L’Manberg armory started to empty itself of its inventory of damaged swords and broken blades of weapons. No one commented on how Tubbo had become more and more adamant about doing his own laundry, and not a single brow was raised towards him whenever the leftover basin of soapy water was dyed a light shade of pink. No one asked why the amount of time Tubbo spent to himself grew little by little, to the point where he had begun penciling in periods in his schedule for him to isolate completely for an hour or two.

As far as Tubbo could tell, it only really mattered to anyone else that he was able to get his work done and in a timely and concise manner.

* * *

2:57 pm.

Tubbo moved his gaze from the clock that sat opposite him back to the paperwork laid out before him. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t bring himself to finish it, his attention was elsewhere. It wasn’t  _ difficult _ , he just needed to confirm some of the filled out information so he could confirm or deny a building permit for something Fundy wanted to construct. He was tempted to simply sign the permit and grant Fundy access to whatever he needed - he knew Fundy was a smart guy and would never try to pull one over on him by inputting false information on the form just for the sake of building something - but he  _ knew _ that the moment he ever tried to take shortcuts on any of presidential tasks, it would become a slippery slope of using shortcuts  _ everywhere _ .

He looked back up at the clock.

2:58 pm.

... _ It won’t hurt to leave this for now _ , he thought to himself.  _ Besides, I’m only scheduled for an hour of ‘Me Time.’ I’ll be back soon. _

Without putting too much thought into it, he brought himself to his feet, the feet of his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor as he did so. His route was practically muscle memory at this point, exiting his office and heading to his private quarters, stopping by his bedside table and taking with him the small wooden box that made its home in the bottom drawer before closing himself off from the rest of the world in the half-bathroom that connected directly to his room. As he slid the door’s lock into place, the pressure that had begun to build in his throat escaped him in the form of a long sigh. The box made a quiet  _ thud _ against the surface of the bathroom’s countertop as he placed it down, but he didn’t care.

He had to make this quick.

He carefully removed his suit jacket carefully, being mindful not to accidentally cause any wrinkles or creases, before hanging it up on the hook installed onto the back of the bathroom door. As he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, Tubbo found himself watching his movements reflected back at him in the mirror. Once the sleeves were rolled up carefully into place just above his elbows, he looked over his past “me time” creations, trying not to take notice of how much paler he’d become over the past months.

There was a large collection of dark lines that scattered over his arms, some already in the stages of healing as deep reddish-purple scars while some still were still barely scabbed over from just the night before. There was a tiny collection of white scars midway up his left forearm, and as he glanced over them, he felt his hands form tight fists.

Tubbo knew if Tommy was here, he could help. He could convince him that this was dumb, it wasn’t worth it. He would grab his arm and pull him away from whatever was stressing him out, and they’d go do whatever ridiculous scheme Tommy had thought up. They’d laugh at each other and the dumb jokes they’d tell each other, and they’d be able to smile just by being in each other’s presence. But Tommy  _ wasn’t _ here. He  _ can’t _ help.

The feeling of a pound of lead in his stomach was all Tubbo needed to remind himself that it was his own fault for that, too.  _ He _ had sent away Tommy. Sure, he’d put the priority of the betterment of L’Manberg first, and that was, in some sense, noble of him… but deep down, he knew he wanted Tommy back. He  _ needed _ Tommy back.

There was a small click as he opened the small wooden box on the countertop beside him, and as he pulled out what was once the blade of a Sharpness IV diamond sword and held it against the flesh of his inner forearm, he muttered a small promise to himself to visit Tommy before the end of the day.

When he didn’t, it was just another reason to return to that bathroom again for a little more “me time."

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this - Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you or anyone you know are currently experiencing any urges to engage in self-harm or self-destructive behavior, I urge you to reach out for help. There are plenty of resources out there, and you are not a burden for asking for help. Please know you are loved and have so much worth.


End file.
